


No rain in Spain

by Lobelia321



Category: Football - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-26
Updated: 2006-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321





	No rain in Spain

_**FICLET: No rain in Spain (Cristiano Ronaldo/Fernando Torres)**_  
Never let it be known I don't respond to canon with speed and alacrity.

If it be canon. But who cares?

Title: No rain in Spain  
Author: [](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/profile)[**lobelia321**](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/)  
Fandom: Football  
Pairing: Cristiano Ronaldo/Fernando Torres  
Length: Short.  
Type: Total crack.  
Bunny: According to the [Correio da Manhã](http://www.correiomanha.pt/noticia.asp?id=207942&idselect=184&idCanal=184&p=200) of 11 July, Cristiano Ronaldo is spending a fortnight on holiday in Spain:  
 _Incógnito é o destino de Cristiano Ronaldo. O jogador do M. United chega hoje à Madeira mas, ao que tudo indica, vai passar 15 dias com a namorada Merche Romero em terras espanholas. Outros, contactados pelo CM, nem por nada revelaram o seu destino de eleição, na tentativa de conseguirem um merecido descanso longe dos olhares indiscretos._  
This is a bunny! Who cares if it's true?

 **No rain in Spain  
by Lobelia**

Cristiano surveyed the empty Castilian plains before him and thought: 'I have been successful in evading the paparazzi. No more will they snap pictures of me and my family, lurking in Madeiran shrubs! I have found the answer. I am a master in disguise.'

He spurred on his trusty donkey.

Indeed, nobody recognised him when he entered the dusty village square. Not the matador munching on some tapas, not the flamenco dancer on her way home, not the little old lady in black dress and headscarf squaffing cerveza in the tavern.

Cristiano tethered his ass to a nearby pine tree and walked up to the bar.

The flamenco dancer didn't bat an eyelid.

The matador swallowed sardines like nobody's business.

The little old lady looked him up and down. This is what she saw: a tall monk, hooded and robed in a brown Franciscan habit, feet shod in sturdy Birkenstocks, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, chin wreathed in a ten-day beard.

"Can I buy you a drink?" the wizened señora asked, in a surprisingly gruff voice.

The friar peered at her. "Meu Deus!" he vociferated in Portuguese. "Is that you, Fernando?"

The little old lady glanced to the left, glanced to the right, then surreptitiously hoicked up the hem of her ankle-length frock to reveal a muscled calf.

"Genius," whispered Cristiano. "How'd you get the wrinkles to look so real?"

"Sorry, what? Could you repeat that in Spanish? And where on earth did you get this monk's outfit from?"

"Oh, this? From Kaká," said Cristiano, in a mixture of Portuguese, Spanish, English and sign language.

"The wrinkles are from an outfit called Weta Workshop," said Fernando. "Cool, aren't they?"

"Is there a loo around here? I've been on my ass all day."

"Well," said Fernando and shot him a dark look. "Funny you should ask."

Nobody noticed the lady entering the gents' loo, in the wake of the Franciscan friar. The flamenco dancer was too busy snogging the matador, and the donkey was wrestling with a thistle.

"Deus e Cristo," said the monk in the toilets, but he wasn't praying; he was expressing his appreciation of the little old lady's body emerging surprisingly breastless and vagina-less from underneath her black fustian gown.

"Puta madre," Fernando sighed, as he unknotted the hempen rope from around Cristiano's waist and slipped the habit over Cristiano's head.

They rutted like bunnies for five-and-a-half minutes, making the cubicle doors shudder and almost sliding down into the orifice of the hole-in-the-ground village-style váter. The brown habit became tangled up with the black dress on the tiles.

Outside, the donkey choked on a thorn. The ground was baked and dry.

Incoherent cries came from the small barred window at the side of the tavern. But later, butter wouldn't melt in the bristle-surrounded mouth of the friar or between the wrinkle-askew lips of the bent old señora.

But, "man," the little lady muttered, "I'm walking bent for real. You're not gettin' me onto that donkey."

All of a sudden, a side door burst open. Matador and flamenco dancer sprang forth. Flashbulbs went off, zoom lenses zoomed, digital cameras whirred.

Was nothing sacred? Yee-aw.

THE END  
On LJ = <http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/489963.html>  
26 July 2006


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